Much Ado About Cabbage
by Gingham and Basil
Summary: It was all really because of the cabbage. Hermione finds her life spinning out of control, and she's not even at the steering wheel. A story about the path to independance, responsibility, and self knowledge.
1. And They Came A'knocking

**Author's Note: **Oh dear…my laptop's, like, gone comatose, so the new chapter of I Am Just A Flea is "static" right now. Good lord, I need reliable technology. To all "I Am Just Flea" readers (if I have any left) I do hope to finish the new chapter, but I haven't even brought my laptop in to see someone yet, so no word on it's condition. (Sniffle.)

So here's this. I wrote it awhile ago. A short multi-chaptered thing. I figured that while my laptop is undergoing surgery, I'll just update this.

**Disclaimer: **Insert funny disclaimer here.

* * *

"**Much Ado About Cabbage"**

_It was all really because of the cabbage…_

_**Chapter One: **__And They Came A'knocking_

It was, of course, a sunny beautiful day, but Hermione was having none of it. Instead, she roughly and repeatedly stabbed the cabbage sitting forlornly on her kitchen counter.

"There!" she said triumphantly, and a little vehemently, "This is going to be cabbage soup, and by gosh if _he_ gets any!" she sniffed, turned on the stove top, and prepared the water.

What she got, seven minutes later, as the water was happily bubbling away, was an owl obnoxiously scratching at her glass panes. Hermione, miffed, yanked open the window, seized the scruffy owl, and took the letter. The owl hooted a bit tremulously, and preceded to preen itself.

"Oh, you want a response, eh?" said Hermione. Pursing her lips, she tore open the seal and quickly read the parchment.

"_Dearest Hermione Granger,_

_It is with the deepest pleasure that we welcome you to the wedding of one Draco Malfoy and Daphne Greengrass, who will so ceremoniously proclaim their love at 3:00 P.M. on Sunday the Twenty-fifth of this month, September, in the Chapel of the Holy Bell of the Wizard Frankenmuth, on Stonington Street, Pickelvale, Ireland. The reception will be hosted in France. Portkeys are available._

_For reception direction please contact the mother of the bride, Wilhelmina Greengrass._

_We hope you attend!_

_-Draco Lucious Malfoy and Daphne Pimpernel Greengrass._

_Formal Attire._

_SRWO._

Hermione grimaced, wiped her nose, wiped her eyes, then scowled at the bird. "SRWO, eh? Send response wif' owl? Well fine, he'll get a blasted response."

And then she began to write.

* * *

Hermione was not one to hold a grudge—she was one to coddle, pamper, treasure, and set said grudge lovingly on the living room mantelpiece. 

For instance, when Justin Finch-Fletchly finally trudged home at 12-o-clock at night, red around the eyes and grinning foolishly, Hermione met him at the door, tapping her foot, and tallying up the countless times he had done this before.

"Well?" she snapped, "Have you anything to say for yourself?"

He just winked and pushed past her into the hallway, hanging up his coat.

She snorted. "I thought so, you drunken git."

No response.

"Oh, is it too much trouble to come home on a regular basis? Eh? No, apparently not." Hermione angrily slammed the front door, whihc he had forgotten to close. "Not when there's so much fun to be had drinking at these lovely company parties your father keeps throwing. What was it he said to me on the phone last week—when he was 'apologizing' because he couldn't possibly make it the homemade dinner I planned for you and your parents, because he had some club party or something and his new secretary needed to be 'shown around'? 'Oh, you know Hermione dear, you better watch Justin m'boy, the old coot is so attractive and all, that new secretary, that charming Leta, she so adores your husband!' Well?"

He shrugged. "It s'only a party," he slurred. "S'not like there's any fun eah, wiv you chillier than winta'."

Hermione bristled. She was about to retort, about to say "Yes, well, a gal does get "chilly" and all when her husband is a drunken son of a bitch," but her voice caught in her throat when she saw him remove his scarf.

There were distinct splotches of red on his neck, retreating down into his shirt. Red shaped like lips. Fuming, thunderstuck, and rather feeling homicidal, Hermione thought of the cold cabbage and bacon soup on the stove, of the empty placemat, of the hours she wasted in the kitchen. She thought of the quick and utterly confusing courtship, the wedding she never even got to plan, the house she never had any say in, the outright wretchedness of her life.

Hermione threw her hands up in the air. "Well, I give up! You can sleep on the couch tonight." She left the room, disgusted with him, with herself for marrying the foolish prat, and Malfoy, who decided to ruin her already deplorable day by announcing his marriage to some silly chit in a mini-dress.

God, she wished more men were gay. It would make life so much easier.

* * *

**Author's Note: **What do you think? It's not much, but i've already finished the second chapter. I think this has potential.

Reveiw and get a buttercream and marble-frosting cupcake!


	2. Systems Down

**Author's Note: **Second chapter of "Much Ado About Cabbage" and not a sign of laptop recovery in sight. But I do not let go of hope.

Just before submitting, I watched BBC's "Persuasion" by Masterpiece Theater. Lovely, thought extremely melancholy at times. And, I'm listening to "Mna Na H-Eireann" by Kate Bush. It's Celtic, and very soundtracky and dramatic. It makes me want to watch LoTR.

**Disclaimer: **When all is said and done, this is rather pointless.

* * *

"**Much Ado About Cabbage" **

_It was all really because of the cabbage…_

_**Chapter Two: **__Systems Down_

"It's not that I'm angry or anything," thought Hermione, wide awake, staring at the darkened, shadow thrown ceiling. It was near midnight. She hadn't closed her eyes since her head hit the pillow.

"No, I'm not angry," she continued, "Just exasperated. And furious. But not angry." Then she turned over on her side and looked into the hallway. The air was gray and the woodwork blue, and it looked strange in the night. "Angry is such a vulgar word. It's coarse and base. An angry person is a coarsely emotional person."

She could just see, if she craned her head and really stretched, the top of Justin's snoring, unwashed head resting on the arm of the couch. "Stupid Justin," she mumbled before turning over again, "Stupid Hermione." She turned again and gave up, flinging her pillow at the wall. "Stupid Malfoy!" she screamed into the night.

Justin snorted.

And then she fell asleep.

* * *

It was the sun that woke her up. Normally it would be her annoying alarm clock, or Justin getting noisily out of bed. Instead, today it was the sunlight hitting her eyes, shafts of pale yellow arcing onto her walls…and her face.

Grumbling, she got up and started to wash, wishing she was anywhere else besides her cold, pink-tiled bathroom. The mirror reflected a very sad face, with shadows and sunken in eyes from lack of sleep, and lines beginning to appear at the corners of her eyes.

"Okay, you ugly bastard!" she yelled at the top of her voice.

She heard the distinct sound of a heavy man falling of a sofa with a startled yell.

"Get up and come in here!"

She heard heavy trotting.

"Old school chums of ours sent a letter the other day—oh god, what's on your face?"

Justin leaned on the doorpost. A splotch of blood, high on his brow, sent trickles down his face. "Fell and hit me-self on the table…"

"Oh Justin, you stupid cow." Slowly Hermione brought him into the bathroom, making his sit on the toilet seat whilst she looked for her wand.

She looked through her drawers, listened to his ragged breathing and his slow mutters. "Hermione, you dense moose, let him bleed to death. The money'll come to you in the end anyway." She breathed heavily. She tried to conjure up feelings of hatred.

She only found pity.

And her wand.

"Okay, idiot, let me see that cut." Her false bravado didn't waver.

Hermione let her fingers touched the sticky mess, smoothing back damp hair. She took a wash towel and soaked it in warm water, and gradually washed away what was most of the old blood. It was still very open, the wound, and bleeding freely. Hermione bit her lip.

"Ow!" The whimper came just as she probed the wound again. His face grimaced; she could see his stocking-ed toes curling in, just like he always did when he was scared. A rush of pity, like Victoria Falls, flooded her immunity to Justin's pain. She let a deep sigh escape.

"Sorry, sorry love." She kissed his temple. "I'm going to sterilize it now, hold still." she took her wand, waved it over his brow, and muttered a spell. A stinging smell filled the air. She coughed. Justin winced, hands reaching up to clasp the wound.

Hermione grabbed at his hands. "Don't touch it, stupid, or it'll never heal." She let his hands drop to his lap. Softly she took gauze out of the cabinet behind the toilet and began to bandage him. He would groan—she would bite her lip and pray her pity stayed long enough to get him healed, short enough to see her out the door and away from him.

She hated it, this cat-and-mouse chase of tenderness and sensuality. They hadn't slept together in weeks, yet she found her heart beating faster a she washed him clean, smoothed his brow, whispered assurance. The erotic sensation of nurse and patient, angel and lost soul, healer and devil, overwhelmed and overcame her mind. "How can I stay mad at him?" she thought, "This lovable, terrible mess he's created—it's only temporary, he never means it."

She wished, in those ethereal, surreal he wasn't being a jackass, or drinking himself into a stupor, everything would heal along with the wounds he acquired. This relationship was like Solitaire—up until ungodly hours of the night, trying to win the game. One more card, you tell yourself, one more card, and then if I don't win, I'll go to bed.

But you don't. You play the card, and you see a small window, and you play another, and another, until the sun is peaking over the horizon, and you haven't slept, and you're back where you started.

She can't quit it, because it's these soft, tender moments with him, when he barely talks, that makes her think "One more card, one more card." Never focusing on that fact that these tender moments came out of hangovers, and sleep deprivation; his wounds the result of his rude awakening, because he slept on the couch. Again.

Hermione sighed. Justin smiled up at her, pulled her onto her lap. "You always know how to make it better." His drowsy words slurred. Her heart beat.

Hermione sighed again, resting her head on his shoulder, fingering the black locks at the base of his neck.

"Baby, I promise I'll stop—whatever you want me to do, wha-I'll, I'll do it, I'll change." She was sure he tried to be heartfelt.

"I don't think you mean it," she said. Her eyes strayed to his neck, to the crimson lip marks, smudged, the makeup dying the white collar of his rumpled shirt. That heart beat fluttered, faltered.

"I don't really think you'll ever," said Hermione.

Justin laughed. "What do you want? Doctor Phil? Don't be stupid."

Flutter, flutter.

"I mean, this is an addiction, not a problem. Justin, it's taking over every little bit—"

"Oh shut-up, fat cow. Listen to you! You sound like my mother."

Flicker, flicker.

He nudged her roughly off his lap, "It's barely day. Too early. Give the lecture later."

Falter, falter.

"Go get some breakfast or something. I'd like bacon."

The quiet, raw emotions jerked free of their restraints, and plummeted to the depths of despair. Hermione clenched her teeth. Already, disgust was pouring into her system, overloading. She regained her senses. "Get it yourself."

Justin snarled and got off the toilet. "Bitch." He pushed her out of the way, reached to turn the shower on. "Get out, I'm getting clean."

"This is my bathroom, use the other one."

"Fine, fine. Yeah, that's a big deal, whichever shower I use. You f-ing Nazi." Justin left, slamming the door behind him. Hermione flinched—that door could make quite a racket.

She heard more slamming, and cursing,. And finally the sound of a far-off shower being turned to full. At last, when she was sure he was deaf to the outside world, she sat down on the toilet seat, and let herself sniffle.

Just a wee bit, though.

* * *

**Author's Note: **Wow I'm hungry. Anyway, review or something if you love me!

(Ha-ha just kidding…that's extortion. Who am I, some Industrial Revolution New England factory owner?)


	3. Of Cabbage and Pineapples

**Author's Note: **Wow my laptop is NEVER going to get fixed, and I will be single forever and I'm never going to get published and I'll end up selling toiletries door to door.

I think I'm emotional, but that's just a hazarded guess.

**Disclaimer:** I wonder if anyone's ever been like "Oh yeah, I'm J.K., no for realz, if I waz American I would be like yo, wats up, but instead I'm like "it's so posh, bloody brilliant", and I write fan fiction for fun, coz' I'm, like connected with my fans, review me plz."

* * *

"**Much Ado About Cabbage"**

_It was all really because of the cabbage…_

_**Chapter Three: **__Of Cabbage and Pineapples_

Hermione stood before the fridge, glowering at the milk, the eggs, and the Tupperware full of cold cabbage soup. She still even had cabbage below in the veggie drawer. Why had she bought so much? Stupid, stupid, she thought.

Justin was still in the shower. He was going to run the water bill up. Hermione didn't care, though. Let him pay it. Nowadays, her paychecks went safe away into her own personal account he didn't know about. Pah!

This day was awful.

Hermione took out the milk, and made herself breakfast. "I wonder if Malfoy really expects us to come?" she wondered aloud.

* * *

"Justin, Draco Malfoy and Daphne Greengrass invited us to their wedding." 

"Grunt."

Cold stare. "I SRWO-ed them back and said we could make it."

"Mmmph."

"It's formal attire. You need to make sure you have a _clean_, good suit."

Justin shrugged. "So I suppose you need to go shopping, huh?" He opened the pantry door. "Goddammit, where is the cereal?"

"Left side—and yes, I do—Merlin sakes, stop glowering, it won't cost much."

"Says the girl who's not paying the bills."

"Damn straight." Hermione put her bowl in the sink. "I'll need your credit card." She didn't look at him; she merely focused on the sink.

Justin heaved a sigh, rubbed his head, and pointed to the back hallway. "Wallet is on the table in there."

"That's a smart place—no wonder you can never find it!"

"Stop nagging, woman, for the love of God."

Hermione bristled. "Woman," she muttered, "I'll show him woman. I shoulda' let him bleed dry when I had the chance." She passed into the back hallway, rifled through the various mail on the table, and found his wallet underneath. She opened it—a couple small pieces of folded paper and a receipt fell out. Rolling her eyes at his organizational skills, she the tucked the papers into her sweatshirt pocket and continued looking for his credit card.

Muggle shopping always cheered her up, it did. She couldn't abide the thought of lugging around galleons, and she certainly did not want to have to buy a dress in a shop full of witches who most likely knew her or the Malfoys—and then she'd have to chat or shit and pretty soon someone would ask "Don't you know Harry Potter?"

And then she'd have to respond in false falsetto "Yes, I do."

And then they'd ask crap like "Doesn't Draco Malfoy, like, _hate_ him?" or "Wasn't Malfoy's dad, you know, evil?"

And eventually, it all would come around to "So _why_ are you going?"

Which was a huge, scary question, because even she didn't know the answer. _Why was she going? _

She could always say things like "It would look bad on Harry if we were discourteous to Draco Malfoy, who after all changed his ways and has done some amazing relief work." Though she didn't believe it—she wasn't doing this for Harry, and she could sure as hell be discourteous to the git—it was believable to others. Hermione Granger is a polite person, they would say.

She would have no excuse for the first and foremost terrifying question on anybody's mind, though. The dreaded "So why were _you_ invited?"

Hermione was startled out of her reverie by Justin's voice coming from the kitchen. "When's this thingy, anyway?" he called, mouth no doubt half full of cereal.

"Huh?"

"The thingy. The wedding." He paused. "When is it?"

"Two weeks, Saturday. You better not have—" she stumbled, afraid to say "company party" and instead said "You better not have work."

"How the hell should I know? Hey, you think it'll be open bar?" His guffaws reverberated around the house. Hermione just shuddered, and went to get dressed.

"I'm going shopping."

His response was an indecipherable garble of gruffness and chewing.

* * *

Fake classical-pop elevator music played over the loudspeakers. Hermione hummed along, strolling through racks and shelves, heeled footsteps muffled on the burgundy carpet. It was here she could breathe easy; here she could let her shoulders relax. No magic, no wizards, or odd people who knew her. 

She noted idly the pretty saleswoman, clad in the gray and burgundy suit of "Westforrester & Pable's". She was tall and slim, and that hair color was surely not natural; Hermione snorted in derision as a some vain, bragging yuppie made his way over, inquiring about something.

There was a time when that young mans affections would have awarded Hermione with a sense of jealousy and dismissal; now she watched distantly, aware that she was far from a position to be jockeying for flirtation. It was an unthinkable emotion, now; what right did a married woman have to jealously?

But thinking of marriage and her own disastrous affair only made her queasy, so she returned to finding something appropriate for a wedding between two former classmates.

When she returned home that afternoon, she found the house deserted. Justin's car was gone, his wallet disappeared.

"I don't care anymore," she announced to the inside of fridge. "I don't, I really don't!"

Really, she didn't! She didn't give a rat's arse! So what if he was barely home and he never once hugged her or smoothed back her hair? So what if the last time he had looked at her with loving affection, he had been in the throws of a particularly nasty hangover?

Besides, what good is a smashed husband?

* * *

"You're unhappy, Hermione," said Ginny, paying the clerk and waddling through the crowded room. She found an empty table, and sat down in one of the chairs with a sigh. 

"Just because you're preggers and blissfully unaware of the world does not make everyone else who isn't jubilant or on a sugar high _unhappy._" Hermione sat down, too, and began to slurp on her milkshake.

Ginny smiled fondly down at her ever protruding belly. Twenty-seven was really such a lovely age to have a baby. "Hermione, don't be daft. It doesn't suit you," she stated, took a slurp of her own chocolaty-and-cream concoction and said "I can tell you're unhappy. I just know. Pregnant woman have what you muggles call ESPN."

"No—pregnant woman are bonkers, and it's ESP, not ESPN. ESPN is a sports station."

Ginny waved one hand dismissively. "You're unhappy, unhappy. Do I need to spell it out?"

Hermione glowered. "Shouldn't you be craving something weird right now? How do you feel about mustard covered pineapples?"

"Ew." Ginny paused to mockingly retch into her hand. "Why would someone waste good mustard by putting it on pineapple? That should be celery. Now, really, who is it?"

Hermione, ignoring the proclamation about celery and mustard, asked "Who? Who is what?"

"Who's making you unhappy? It has to be somebody. I can't see Hermione Granger getting upset over money issues."

'The money's fine."

"You didn't answer my question." Ginny arched her eyebrow, stared pointedly in a way only the daughter of Molly Weasley could, and continued to stare at Hermione, taking large slurps of milkshake every now and then.

"You're actually more annoying when you're pregnant, you know that?" Hermione said finally, holding up a hand when Ginny went to protest. "I'm not done."

Silence.

"Oh, you want me to tell you now? Fine, fine." She took a large breath. Two large breaths. Just in case. "I'm unhappy because Justin went from fumbling-man-with-troll-emotions to zero affection. He comes home lit with somebody's lipsticky prints on his neck, and Merlin knows wherever else. His father is a bastard—his mother does not like me—and the last time Justin looked at me warmly was this morning, when he still had a hangover and couldn't put together two words, while I stupidly stopped the bleeding he acquired from smashing his head on the coffee table when I woke him up."

"Bloody hell, Hermione."

"Shh, I'm not done." Hermione took another sip and settled her elbows on the table. "He insults me daily, accuses me of being cold in bed—he called me a fat cow, for Circe's sake! And now, to top it all off, I had to go shopping this morning because we were invited to Draco Bloody Fucking Malfoy's wedding to that Slytherin floozy—Daphne Greenweed, or Green-ass. And I can't really say _no_—well, I can, but I don't know _why_ I can't say no, so now I'm confused, lonely, deprived of love and sex and kisses, and…and I've run out of milkshake."

Ginny sat staring, mouth slightly open. "Dear Merlin, I'm really certain now that you should stay with me and Harry."

"Don't be silly, I'm not twelve."

Ginny just sighed through her nose, and settled more comfortably in her chair. "Well, I don't think _you_ can do anything about Justin's drinking habits, dear, and if the man isn't affectionate it doesn't sound like you can persuade him otherwise."

"I've tried."

"His parents _are_ abominable—I've met them—nothing you can do about it, unless you want someone to off them—kidding, kidding! Though I'm not at all sure you shouldn't have let the git bleed to death."

"I told myself that too! Aren't I an idiot?" Hermione sighed dramatically and shrugged.

"The money _would _go to you in the end, anyway," Ginny mused.

"Exactly!"

"Still…it really isn't legal..." continued Ginny, grimacing slightly.

Hermione nodded in concurrence "Or ethical…or sane…to bump one's own husband off."

"No…no, sadly it isn't," said Ginny rather dully. She took a napkin and wiped her hands. "But I daresay everyone would be a lot happier if you did."

Hermione snorted in reply, and toyed with her straw. "But what about the rest of my…dilemma."

"Shenanigans."

"I wouldn't call it that…but it is a nice word."

"I know…what did you say he said…cold in bed? You know, Hermione that you are only cold because he is cold, and if there's on thing we women have learned in life, it's that we are always right. Or else."

"Too true."

"And you aren't fat."

"I try not to be. That your job."

"It's natural to gain weight in a pregnancy, you doodle! I've told you!"

Hermione just grinned and flicked a little of the condensation from her glass at her. "I'm just kidding."

"No shit—so, did you get something nice?"

"Nice?"

"The shopping expedition…for that slimy git's wedding?"

"Oh. Oh, yes! I did." Hermione smiled. "It's actually pretty. You know, really silky material—sort of cinched here, nice slooping back. It long, too, but not so long as to upstage Bridezilla."

Ginny nodded. "What color?"

"A nice red. I thought it would be fitting. 'Sides, I felt Malfoy could use a reminder every now or then."

"That's right," said Ginny, pumping a fist, "Give the idiot a taste of Gryffindor pride!"

"My thoughts exactly."

And they went to order more milkshakes.

It was only afterwards, though, that Ginny wondered why Hermione was so fast as to think of pineapple and mustard. "I hope she isn't pregnant as well. That would be...weird."

Too true.

* * *

**Author's Note: **I hope this is appealing and up to standards. I'm afraid it's rather long, but… Anyway I've gotten, like, one review, so I don't know if anyone actually reads this, but I'll post anyway. Call it my indomitable spirit. 

I really would appreciate reviews, but I'm not begging or anything…

Toodles!

-G&B


	4. Denial Ain't Another Watering Hole

**A.N.:** Oh goodness gracious me, I'm back!!! If any of you still love me, thanks you oh so much. If you don't, well, neither do most of my acquaintances, so right'o, popkins. Right, well, here is a fourth installment of Cabbage. It's not very good—in fact, it's very depressing, but it's going somewhere. I still love "Totally Stapled" and hope to continue it. It's decidedly lighter fare.

I also have a few LoTR fics in the works. Yay? IDK. I love the movies, and after I finish Jane Austen's "Emma" I will partake in their exquisite literary merit. P.S. Eomer is a hottie. Jus' saying.

Knee way (hahah…like anyway? Knee way? N e way? No?...Fine.) Never mind, I forgot what I was going to say.

Oh, yes, first off—I wonder if anyone's ever written a longer author's note than actual story. Shall I try it? I could. Wonder if there are any rules against said behavior. Rather bad show, all in all, wot wot.

Right, so enjoy, I know I won't. I always hate my stuff. It's a British thing. Except I'm not British, I'm American.

So, don't mind me, I'm not British. I'm miming this whole note with a John Cleese voice. I love him. He's rather hot for an old timer.

**Disclaimer: **Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, plus a few old guys, the woman at the grocery store, Aunt Susan, Uncle Tony, green eggs and ham, Gingham, few sprinkles of pepper, bacon, and the rest of Gingham which is Basil. Hello. It's very late. I'm tired. Which is why I sound like I'm drugged. More than usual.

* * *

"**Much Ado About Cabbage"**

_It was really all because of the cabbage…_

_**Chapter Four: **__Denial Ain't Just Another Bit O' Watery Flibberjbbit in Egypt_

"_The man who says his wife can't take a joke forgets that she took him." _

_-Anonymous _

A healthy woman would no doubt have left by now, Hermione mused, looking at the innumerable dirty dishes and used paper towels crowding the sink and the kitchen counter. When she'd left that afternoon, stopping by after shopping, it had been immaculate. She'd made sure; she always did.

Now, it looked as if a horde of seventh year boys had torn through their house. No doubt Justin and Cormac had been here, yet the house was devoid of life. It was sickening, in a lonely, entirely pitying way.

"Bloody hell," she said shortly, as she waved her wand. She knew she shouldn't complain—after all, what was one wave of the wand compared to two hours of cleaning?

It was the _thought_ that counts, though.

"Stupid ugly prattling _thoughts_." Besides, magic wasn't immediate: it washed dishes just as fast as a human, so this would take a while. The point was she wouldn't have to do the work.

And maybe that's the problem with wizarding marriages. There are no dirty dishes, and upswept floors, and un-bought groceries, and little, time-consuming things to hide behind when something goes awry. There's only the bare truth, laid out before you—while the dishes and the floors magically clean themselves; while the errands go by quicker because there's no need for muggle cars and muggle traffic—you can face the bitter end, that maybe this marriage thing isn't working out.

The truth of it was that nowadays, what lay between him and she was a pit of angry physical need; when they talked, the air was electrified in a scary way, the way that you feel before your mouth lets out something vicious and ugly.

It was the atmosphere of blood.

It was nearing seven, as she finally ate something for supper and switched off the radio. The long walk to her bedroom was mortifying. Another day, another night alone. She could simply send an owl, sure.

But again, it was the thought that counted, didn't it?

Benjamin Franklin once said "Keep your eyes wide open before marriage and half-shut afterwards." At the rate she was going, she wouldn't be surprised if one day she slammed into a brick wall.

Hermione rolled her head around, and stretched. She sat down on their bed. She bent down, untied her shoelaces. Kicked off her shoes.

She removed the robes she had put on hurrying to meet Ginny in Diagon Alley. She threw them into the laundry basket.

One by one, she undid the slightly rumpled, pale blue button up underneath. She shrugged it off, and it followed the robes.

Hermione kicked out of skirt, made of smart material and looking now too matronly, in contrast to her empty bed and naked skin.

Goosebumps raced up her arms. A headache was forming, a bloody honest-to-God headache, as if she wasn't plagued enough.

With a disgruntled groan, she flopped back on the bed, looking wryly at her almost bare form. There was a time when she would have slept like this, gone to bed in just her underwear. But just knowing Justin would come home sometime in the night, and not come home _with her_, made him feel like a stranger.

It wasn't even that he came home after hours. It was that he just wasn't coming _home. _

He wasn't trekking back with her after a friend's party.

He wasn't making his way over with last minute groceries.

He wasn't even finally arriving after a strenuous commute.

He was deliberately showing up at one in the morning; he wasn't anxious to see her; he had intentionally left her out of something possibly fraudulent and misconstrued and adulterous.

What a bloody frigging jackass.

Hermione sighed heavily, feeling like the misplaced comic housewife in some old television show. Except with magic and ridiculously perturbed hair.

She took the old plaid sweatpants from the bottom of her dresser, the ones from Merlin-knows-when. They were baggy and comfortably and more familiar than anything else in the house. A small black T-shirt, from some sporting company. Socks.

Then Hermione noticed the carelessly thrown sweatshirt, hanging over the arm of the armchair. It looked sad, lying there rumpled from this morning's shopping. It was graying and worn; the zipper had been replaced too many times to count.

She went to place it in the laundry basket, knowing if she didn't no one would.

There was a weak crumpling sound.

She frowned, remembering vaguely putting something in the pocket; her hand found lint, and lint, and then the silky feel of over processed paper.

She pulled out two small folded pieces of paper, and a receipt. They were from Justin's wallet, when she had picked it up; they had fallen out, she had wrinkled her nose at how untidy he was, and then had pocketed them, in that harmless unconsciousness only attained by being married and oblivious for so long.

Like one word sentences packed with a boatload of meaning. "Coffee?" you ask, meaning, "Should I get you coffee? I know you have a big meeting but you're doctor said you should probably stay away."

And you answer "Tea." meaning "No, thank you, I'll have tea, I can probably go with that decaffeinated stuff I the pantry—I'll have coffee tomorrow." A conversation not polite enough or detailed enough to accomplish with complete strangers.

And stares meant to convey emotions and thoughts the other people in the room shouldn't be knowledgeable about. That "I can't believe how long Aunt Mary is going on about Lucille's divorce," glance, or the "Will you get me a glass of wine, and try to act hot because my ex just showed up," wink.

Or better yet the "I'm still very angry with you, and I know you can tell, and it would be better if you would just fold and concede that you were wrong, because frankly I'm not giving in and if you want to sleep on the couch tonight…" honest, effective glare.

It's a level you reach when words can't do anything justice.

It's also a level you reach when you find out things you never wanted to know.

Hermione felt the paper—two post-it-notes, and the receipt in her hand. Normally she would have had no qualms about innocently unfolding them. After all, what's his and hers and et cetera.

It was only the feeling that she'd never seen these bits of paper before that made her hesitate.

I'm being incredibly paranoid," thought Hermione, looking down at the casual little bits of chewed tree. She tried to laugh. "They're not important. Justin's not really the 'grand gesture' guy. He doesn't do secrets and mysteries and gunk."

_Why aren't you opening them?_

"Shut up, you," Hermione muttered to herself. Her hand turn them over, fingers rubbing them against her other palm.

She sat down on the bed again, placed one post-it-note and the receipt next to her, and stared at the morsel of folded paper. She opened it.

It took a few minutes for her brain to stop reading it over and over again, and start processing what she actually saw.

It was an address.

Hermione snorted. "This is what I was afraid of?" She grinned, despite herself. "An address probably for some client?" She chuckled, but coldly.

Why did she feel in denial?

"God," she muttered, "I need to sleep. Yes, I need to sleep." But the other papers kept calling to her. Her hand reached uncaringly, and went faster than she thought possible, and she was staring at numbers and letters before she had a chance at free will.

She was reading a receipt for "Amagio's Cuisine." Well, that was a fancy place. Hermione smiled; obviously work. He was courting a new client—though she inwardly cringed at the word "courting"—and obviously this dinner for two was just that. Dinner for two business associates. The date was last Friday night.

Hermione remembered waiting up for him to come home, watching old reruns, endless news, and nightly talk shows. Well, it certainly was a late dinner.

She suddenly felt like a snoop.

The post-it note was a list, however. A shopping list? "Roses; Wiz-agra; comb; afterhave," she read. "Wiz-agra?" She snorted. Wiz-agra was the wizard form of Viagra, made of Merlin-knows-what herbs and creature parts.

None of this made much sense to her, and she would rather had ignored it. So she did, remarkably, stealing his pillow and inching to the middle, reaching for her wand to lock the door, nox the lights, and pull the covers over her head.

She fell asleep, fitfully, two hours later, when her heart stopped beating and finally lay down too, as the drunken footfalls of her husband echoed in their lonely house.

* * *

**A.N.: **Wow. That was depressing. Still, rather fun. And I promise, it will get better. Though I've rather lost the timeline. Anyone know better than me and want to remind me? When's the wedding?

Ah well. Toodle-oo, my dear pun'kins.

Much Love and All That Jazz

-G&B


End file.
